


Quiet Spirits

by lyonie17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-08
Updated: 2007-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:49:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyonie17/pseuds/lyonie17





	Quiet Spirits

Indiana's flat plains shifted to Ohio's slightly rippled fields with scattered trees. Ohio rolled into Pennsylvania's western reaches, and then turned north through New York. New York's parklands and rhythmic highways flowed into Massachusetts' wooded hills and the quieter roads of New Hampshire. Signs for Portsmouth finally peered out of the looming darkness, like nocturnal beasts startled by passing headlights.

Sam jumped awake again, trying to convince himself that he hadn't been dreaming more than a dream, but Dean's chuckle proved the point moot. "Anything new this time? Address maybe, or a phone number?"

"Nothing. Just the lighthouse. Feels like a ghost, but I thought Dad had gone through all those before, that one summer?" Sam reached over the seat for a bottle of water, hoping hydration would kick his headache without painkillers, which he'd had too many of already. Not much hope, but he'd try anyway. "I don't know why you're convinced it's Portsmouth, though. I can't see anything that indicates location."

"I told you I recognized it from your sketch. I fished off that island the month we were here with Dad. I used to borrow a boat from the landlady's daughter while you were buried in the library." Dean looked out his window, and Sam could see the corner of his mouth turn up. Uh-huh. More like he'd borrowed the landlady's daughter and had been - Sam resolutely did not finish that thought.

"Fine. Well, I'm probably going to be buried in the library again as soon as it opens in the morning, so I guess you'll have to row yourself out and check out the lighthouse. Remember salt air plays with the readings though. The journal said something about phosphorescence, too.” Dean grunted, and Sam gave up pretending and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep again so he could ignore his pounding head.

After a couple hours in real beds at the Anchorage Inn, the brothers agreed on a coffee and information breakfast in the historical section, figuring that the waitresses there would be the most inclined to pass on odd happenings, feeding the tourist frenzy. They strolled slowly towards the Café on the Banke, pausing by likely houses to discuss the architecture and so that Dean could listen to his ‘audio tour.’ “Gotta tell ya, Sam, sounds like there’s enough spirit activity in this town to keep us here for a while, but not much of it’s localized. Dad wasn’t kidding about the salt air making things wonky.”

Sam blew on his latte. “I wonder how he got anything done here, then. We weren’t helping much then, just a little research, and pre-hunt rituals now and then. But he seemed to be making progress.”

“He wasn’t coming home and drinking every night. So it was a good summer, whatever else happened.” Dean munched his cookie and glanced back at the server behind the counter. “She looks local, you think?” He waved at the woman, motioning toward Sam’s cup. As she put Sam’s third latte down carefully, Dean tried his best down-home grin out. “My brother and I were just saying this must be a good town for ghosts. All those sailors and traders and pirates - they had pirates, here, right?” He looked hopeful.

“Sure, doesn’t everyone? Pirates are fun, everybody likes a good looting and burning.” She turned to go back but Sam spoke up.

“So they did have pirates? I haven’t been able to find any record of piracy in the court records or the newspaper archives. I’ve been interested ever since I did a paper on Blackbeard in high school.”

“I suppose we must have. But it’s not really in the stories. Mostly around here we concentrate on sea ghosts, stuff like that. Romantic stories with sea captains and abandoned wives, sea wives and abandoned captains. You know the kind.”

Sam chuckled. “Nothing special, just your normal seafaring town then. Any particularly interesting ghosts? Or are the ghosts boring too?” He didn’t look at Dean to see his brother’s smirk. He knew it was there, and he couldn’t risk breaking rapport. It’d be impossible to re-establish, and where else would they find someone who’d willingly discuss ghosts? He wasn’t taking a chance.

“Well,” she said, and leaned against the next table, with her head tilted toward the entrance in case someone came in, “there are a lot of stories. Mostly sad, many romantic, some thrilling and heroic. What’s your poison?”

“Um. How about romantic? And thrilling? Dean likes thrilling, even without the pirates.”

"Well, that's new. Have you ever heard of that many ghosts in one town for that long?" Sam looked down the street where tourists were exclaiming loudly over some find in a second hand shop. "Anyway, I thought Dad had laid all the ghosts here before, but she said they'd been here at least since the Revolution?"

Dean was listening to his EVP meter again, and frowning. He spun slowly in place, pausing at the cardinal points and finally whirling on Sam. "I don't get it. People are constantly seeing ghosts here. It's practically reported in the paper. Almost every family has at least one of their own, and newcomers inherit them, but nobody's got any problems with it. No poltergeists, no violence, no hauntings as we know them. Just a town full of friendly ghosts - if that isn't the last thing I ever thought I'd say in my life, I don't know what is."

"I think Dad was onto something. It's got to be the salt in the air. It's so strong here you can taste it. That must have some kind of effect on manifestations, and if they can't manifest, they can't effectively haunt, right?"

"Sure, but that doesn't make sense either. If there really was enough salt in the air to do that, to affect ghosts that strongly, then it should rain saltwater around here. Seriously. No way is there that much salt by itself with this kind of result. We'd be breathing crystals, and sweeping salt instead of dust. And look at all the trees and flowers. If there was that much salt around, this would look like the Dead Sea without scrolls."

Sam pondered this as they slowly walked on, pausing from time to time to scan buildings, take notes, and consult Dean's Walkman. "Let me get this straight. You're saying there's something else that's controlling the ghosts? Cause no way are they just friendly. Not every single one of them. And certainly not for this long."

Dean grunted and turned down a sloping alley that led out onto the beach. At midday, the sun on the water was nearly blinding, even through Dean's shades, and Sam squinted toward the north end of the beach, and then scanned south across the water, looking for Dean's little rendezvous spot. "Dean, I thought you said that lighthouse was falling down?”

“It was. There was a condemned sign on it the last time I was there, with a demolition date. Why?” “Cause it’s still there. And it looks exactly the same.”

Renting a rowboat with an out-of-state license: $80 bucks for three hours. Water and provisions for an afternoon trip: $10. Walk back to get the car and weapons: $3 for parking and fifteen minutes of Dean listing reasons why different weapons were going to be vital in their search for the putative ghost suppressant. Seeing Dean’s face when he was reminded that he used to go and make out on that island, and may have been making out with whatever they’d come back to investigate: priceless.

After some discussion involving the correct orientation of a rowboat during use from Sam, and the shape and genetic heritage of Sam’s brain from Dean, the boat was beached in the little cove Dean remembered on the seaward side of the island, and they climbed the brief incline to the base of the lighthouse “You know, you weren’t kidding when you said it looked exactly the same, Sammy-boy. I think that’s the same sign I saw too.”

Dean started circling the structure, but stopped suddenly as he passed the laminated notice tacked beside the green-painted door whose lost flakes littered the step in front of it. “What?” Sam stepped up beside his brother, reading over his shoulder. “That’s dated for next week.”

“Yeah. Huh.” Dean turned and started again to circle the tower, “Check the other way for alternate entrances, will you? Don’t want any surprises.” Sam turned his back on his brother and made his way around the other side of the lighthouse, pausing to look up the multi-storied structure for windows. He noticed some swirling patterns in the cement, under the flaking paint, and stopped to take a picture with his phone. Dean stomped a few steps then stopped, still annoyed by Sam's remembering his secret make-out spot. He halted completely suddenly, and looked behind him. Sea grass and rugosa roses waved gently at him, but no other living thing was to be seen. He resumed his path, observing the very high windows, the extremely faded stripes of red and white paint, and the vaguely Celtic-looking designs in the cement, under the paint.

"Sam, have you -"

"Dean, I think it's - what?"

"What what? Go on!"

Sam shook his head, and opened his cell, keying the camera on. He handed Dean the journal from his backpack, and then traded it for his phone. "It's definitely the same markings Dad's put in the book here, but he has no notes about them. I looked for associated entities or anything connected, but all there is on three pages here are the sketches. I've never seen anything solitary in his notes. He always has something to say, where he found a symbol, a story he found about it, something. I think he found these symbols, but that something happened to keep him from going further."

"Like what, Columbo? The spirit of the lighthouse? A sea-nymph? A kelpie? How would any of those things be able to put these designs here, under the paint?"

 _They would if someone helped them._

Both of the brothers stepped backwards and away from the other, trying to flank the speaker, but they saw no one. Anything is possible with help.

 _A town plagued with unbanishable ghosts might make a very innovative arrangement, especially if its fruition benefits them in other ways._

Dean picked up one foot to move to the side, but Sam shook his head. Dean rolled his eyes and put his foot down. "Really?" He managed to sound merely careless, instead of his usual sarcastic self. “What benefits could they get from ghosts that aren’t laid to rest, but stay around and walk the streets? Don’t the ghosts start to get pissy and impatient and start killing people?”

Sam glowered at him, but Dean shrugged. If their companion wanted to take offense, the sooner the better before it had more chances to set a trap for them.

 _Oh no. They’re all really quite amiable. All of their emotional energy is channeled into it, you see. The salt helps with that, at least, and I have to monitor to make sure all stays balanced, but it’s really quite a lovely bit of work._

“What is?” Sam wasn’t sure whether he felt sorry for the ghosts or not. Whatever this was, it was a nasty customer to get on the bad side of. “How are you controlling the ghosts?”

 _Surely you bright boys have noticed the lovely gardens and forests around the port? It was killing me, the salt was, but I couldn’t hold it off by myself, I needed help. So when the sailors came, and their mates started outstaying their welcome, I proposed a solution._

“What was that?” Sam narrowed his eyes. The grass around them rustled, amused.

 _All in good time. My scheme did not flower immediately either. I was bound to preserve the land, the growing things, the life, and the sailors cared nothing for anything they could not take to sea with them. It took a famine before they heard me out._

The nearest trees shivered slightly, turning their leaves upside down as though a thunderstorm approached. “Ok. So you fixed the eco-system to stop the salt killing the plants, and you’ve channeled the ghosts’ energy to power your spell, using the salt you’re pulling from the air to hold them captive?” Sam looked a little shell-shocked, and a lot like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Dean smirked at him, almost laughing at Sam’s glare.

 _Yes. Precisely. You have grasped the concept more quickly than your father. He was particularly difficult to convince. He kept demanding proof that I was not a malevolent entity, and threatening to salt and burn something. Of course I could not permit such a thing._

Dean laughed, “So what did you tell him? You’re just a misunderstood wood-nymph, a little out of her area, trying to hold on to what’s yours?”

 _Wood-sprite, if you please. Human nomenclature is so gender-oriented. I really can’t see how any of you understand the others._

“Right. Sorry. Sprite. Er, could we see some proof that you’re not a malevolent entity? Just for the record?”

The wooded hills and quiet roads of New Hampshire and Massachusetts passed into New York’s parkland and rhythmic highways. Southern New York flowed imperceptibly into Pennsylvania’s western reaches, and rolled on through Ohio’s slightly rippled fields scattered with trees.

Sam jerked awake, not bothering to pretend that he’d been merely napping, just in time to see Welcome to Indiana passing in a blur outside his window. “Where are we headed? I thought - I thought we were going to Portsmouth?”

Dean looked puzzled, then stubborn. “No, we’re just in time to make sure that Burkittsville is still fixed. You know we told Emily we’d check for a couple years to make sure. I thought we could swing through on our way to check out those wolf attacks in Montana. You think they still make that pie?”

Sam gathered his thoughts. “But what about Portsmouth? The vision? The lighthouse? We’re just gonna forget all that?”

Dean looked more stubborn. “It’s taken care of. Dad took care of all of them, remember? He told us that when we left before.”

“Oh. Ok.” Sam paused again, and then agreed. “Yeah, I remember. That was such a boring summer. Well, Burkittsville it is, then.”


End file.
